


A Summer Morning, in St Ives

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, First Kiss, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin moves town to attend a new Sixth Form College.  But he's still got a month to go before going back to school. In the mean time he goes lounging on the beach. Until something -- or someone -- shatters his peace and quiet.<br/>Or long snippet that happens when you watch old films.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summer Morning, in St Ives

Merlin's always been rather pasty. It's his skin tone. But since he's a teenager and teenagers are bound to afflict each other, or so TV tells him, that's always been read as a sign of his evident geekiness and insufficient proclivity for the great outdoors. 

Since he's not often in the sun and generally has good marks, it must follow that he spends all his time doing boring things like, you know, studying. (His being somewhat on the lanky side hasn't helped disprove the theory that he must be a stay-at-home loser with no capacity for sports.)

The fact that Merlin's just won a place in a public and quite exclusive sixth form college won't help matters and will certainly contribute to fuelling the gossip centred around his person. And frankly Merlin has had enough of it. The more so since he's starting out from scratch in a place where nobody knows his past. Merlin just wants a hassle free life. In short he doesn't want to be poked at, bullied, or sneered at for the lack of qualities everybody else in his age range seems to possess.

Clean slate. No baggage. New school. He can do it.

Given that he's learned that appearances matter, Merlin has made a plan.

Which, in practice, boils down to Merlin having decided to re-tailor his image, a little bit. With this in view he has hied himself off to the nearest beach to effect some changes on his person. The seaside ought to do him good. Even Uncle Gaius agrees though he doesn't know why Merlin's so keen to acquire a different look.

Merlin has a month to work on it – August, since he's had to have a stab at his summer job, delivering newspapers, the whole of July – and plans to get sun-kissed skin and toned abs because of all the swimming he's going to do.

Thanks to his mum and her insistence on him attending the Ealdor pool from ages eight to fourteen he's a dab hand at free style. And at least he likes the feel of the water as opposed to the smell of the pitch the one time he tried football.

With that intention he takes the coach to the seaside, almost getting lost since he's new to the area. Things that happen when you move counties to be able to attend a new school, he sighs. Or when having a good sense of direction is not your forte. Still, he manages to get to St Ives by Midday, a rucksack full of sun screen, a towel, battered sunglasses, and a few comics to read while he roasts (gets a tan) on his back.

When he gets to the beach proper, Merlin spreads his towel on the sand, strips himself of his tee, shoves off his flip-flops, sprays sunscreen all over the now bared parts of his body and has a lie down. The sand is, grainy, grey and itchy under his feet, but the sun is toasting him nicely, warming his front, and he thinks he can get used to this easily enough, when someone rushes past and makes him eat a square ton of said grainy, grey and itchy sand.

Merlin sits up, nearly hacking up a lung, eyes smarting because he's got sand in there too, and feeling generally pissed off at the world. Still coughing, Merlin goes off on a rant, “What the hell!” he says, or perhaps screeches, who cares. He's not exaggerating one bit since he can barely see, barely talk, and overall barely move without feeling sand somewhere private. “Couldn't you have watched where you were going!” he yells in the general direction of the person who caused the commotion. He paws at his eyes as he does it.

“Oh come on,” a posh voice drawls, “it wasn't that bad.”

Merlin begs to differ. He's got sand under his molars and in his eyes. “I'm telling you, it was. It is, mate.”

The hurricane that covered him in sand and whom Merlin still can't see snorts at that. “Not your mate now, am I?”

“No,” Merlin agrees, blinking sand off his eyes to focus on Tall, Toned and Fit. (It figures that he'd meet one of those obnoxious beach types who think the world owes them everything when he's here adhering to his slightly humiliating plan.) “One of my mates would have apologised by now.” Which is not strictly true because Will doesn't believe in crying over spilt milk and Freya is mostly the silent type (though she'd have been contrite). “Unlike certain other people.”

Tall, Toned and Fit throws his head back and laughs, his blond hair dancing on his forehead in a very obnoxious way. When Merlin does that his hair stands up in tufts. When Tall, Toned and Fit does it, it falls back into place without a glitch. “You whinge a lot, don't you?” he says when he's done mocking Merlin. “Anyway, can't stay on,” he points backwards at a large strip of unspecified horizon. “And won't be going on my knees for you.” Tall, Toned and Fit pauses, goes cross eyed, splutters, though the one with sand in his mouth is actually Merlin, and says, “To apologise. Naturally. I won't. Because I-- I've got to go.”

And with that he takes off at a run, lifting up clouds of sand on his way, jumping over a sand castle and destroying two turrets in the process, only to splash into the sea, and diving like he was born to it.

“Dick,” Merlin mutters, cleaning the rest of his face with the edge of his towel. “Monumental dick.”

Thankfully, Tall, Toned and Fit is no more than a bobbing head in the sea, so Merlin can go back to doing what he was before he was buried in a localised sand storm.

He idles for an hour or so, not forgetting to turn onto his belly so he can get an even tan, and to spray more sun screen on his face and feet (which have got an unsavoury lobster colour because he might have omitted them before. He reads some, drinks some, texts his mum, assuring her that he's fine, buys some ice cream from the vendor, and decides to take a walk on the old pier that stretches out on the sea.

The construction is a bit ramshackle, the paint peeling off to bare the wood to the elements, and it's rough on his feet but gives onto a deeper stretch of sea that looks green and more unsullied than the water lapping at the beach. Seagulls are soaring high, their call in his ears, and Merlin quite likes leaning against the shoddy railing, breathing in salt and spray.

It's a little like being on an adventure.

Until something fractures the peace of the moment and shocks him to the core.

One of the bathers has swum quite far out and is now having problems making it back to the beach. He can barely stay afloat, his stroke very uneven, and broken by massive pauses used to getting his breath back. He goes under, then gets to the surface again.

Merlin doesn't think twice about it. He throws his ice cream away, finds a gap in the railing, and dives, swimming out to the man. Under the pier the current is strong and it moves against him, but despite his lack of muscle mass, he's decent at this. Thanks, mum. Ploughing through the surf, he doesn't struggle against the breaking waves though he has to pause from time to time.

In less than a minute though, and thanks to a few powerful kicks, Merlin reaches the swimmer. By the time he has, he realises it's the boy from before, but that's only a peripheral consideration. “Hey,” he says instead, “Hey, I'm here to help.” 

Since he's not getting any clear answer any time soon, Merlin gets behind Tall and Fit, places his arm under his and holds on tight, before he starts pulling him back towards the shore. 

When they're close enough to the beach to making the crawl unnecessary, Merlin wades forward, walking Tall and Fit, who's leaning heavily against him, to safety.

As Merlin drags him onto the sand, a crowd of onlookers forms around them, Tall and Fit sprawling there on the foreshore, coughing, gasping and otherwise breathing hard. Yet he's breathing and looks mostly fine. 

Some of the onlookers intervene, one asks Tall and Fit if he wants an ambulance but Tall and Fit, says, “No, no,” all raspy and rough. “It was just a cramp. I'm fine.”

Someone else ruffles Merlin's hair, saying, “Well done, young man.”

But it's Tall and Fit who surprises him, saying, all awed, “You saved my life.”

“Well, I, no, I--”

Tall and Fit smiles widely at him, even though he still looks a bit green around the gills. “Now don't be stupid. I'm complimenting you on your...” He's clearly looking for words, the crease on his brow more telling than he probably realises. At last he settles on, “Bravery," and a red tint supplants the green that was turning Tall and Fit's complexion to unhealthy shades before. Tall anf Fit's eyes soften too to go with the 'grateful' mood he seems to be in. He reaches a hand out, which Merlin instinctively takes to pull him up, and says, “I'm Arthur, by the way. Arthur Pendragon.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Merlin stammers, “Merlin.”

This is the bystanders' cue to leave. Merlin guesses they have proof that both he and Arthur have escaped from the clutches of the sea unscathed. It's also aboundantly clearly that neither of them needs medical attention given that Arthur is already on his feet and Merlin's never lost his stride. Which in turn means that there's no need for a compassionate crowd of onlookers.

Meanwhile Arthur hasn't let go of his hand. He's not shaking it anymore, but neither is he holding it. It's more like they're stuck in this moment, Merlin a little speechless because this bloke who was totally obnoxious before isn't being annoying now, Arthur looking at him out of wide, somewhat soulful eyes, head tilted to the side in thoughtful way. He must be _very_ grateful, Merlin concludes. “Thank you, Merlin, and sorry about giving you grief before, though you are a bit squeamish.”

“And you're really, really shit at apologising,” Merlin blurts out, because it's true and because it's the first thing that's come to mind. Merlin's social skills aren't the best. He's yet to find a satisfying medium between polite and ruthlessly honest. “Like completely.”

“Probably,” Arthur says, letting go of Merlin's hand now after a solid two minute hand-shake, (really it's a record handshake). “But then again I'm a Pendragon.”

That doesn't make any sense to Merlin, the reference entirely lost on him, so he just shrugs his shoulders. “I'm not so vindictive as to let you drown because you showered me in sand. Though sand is vicious.”

“Yet you're on a beach,” Arthur observes.

Merlin can't tell him why he's come here. He doesn't particularly want to explain his thoughts processes to someone who clearly won't be able to understand them. Arthur is one of those guys blessed with not having had to go through any awkward phase at all. Most probably. Evidence considered analytically and all. His body is nearly perfect, he's got attitude, and he's generally sure to be having it easy at school. So Merlin says, “Yeah, there's a difference between sunbathing and having a go at Desert Storm 3D.”

Arthur laughs. It's a bark of a laugh, sharp, trilling, high, honest. “You're quite odd, aren't you, Merlin?” he says. Merlin doesn't bristle because he's said it like it's a good thing. A fun thing. A good quality rather than a short coming. Or perhaps it's just the novelty of it that is not making Arthur sound grating, but Merlin accepts the statement because he thinks there was no intent to hurt behind it. Before Merlin's quite sussed out why Arthur should sound like that, Arthur adds, “Look, I owe you, so I thought I could make it up to you.”

“But--” It's not as if Merlin wants payment for what he's done. He was happy to lend a hand and he doesn't need any making up.

“No buts, Merlin,” Arthur says, “I'll buy you ice cream.”

“But--” Merlin wants to say that he'd already eaten most of one before he noticed that Arthur was in trouble and that he doesn't need more ice cream now, but Arthur is stubborn and adamant. He pulls Merlin all the way towards the van, making him skirt the sunbathers lazily splayed on beach towels, saying Merlin shouldn't stand on ceremony really, “It's stupid,” and without quite letting Merlin put in a word in edgewise, so that Merlin gives up, and decides he'll skip dinner.

Without telling his mum that he's eaten too much ice cream and saved someone from drowning in a semi efficient way thus risking his neck himself. He'll come up with an excuse later that won't make her worry. He'll plead an intestinal bug or something. She'll call Uncle Gaius, he'll prescribe the odd old remedy, and everybody will be happy and none the wiser.

You can't always tell your parents everything, however nice they are, and Merlin's quite good at plotting too.

Half a pistachio cone later, Merlin finds out that his stomach can aptly accommodate extreme quantities of confectionery without much trouble and that Arthur is not such a git as he first thought.

In a mood for honesty and despite colouring a little, Arthur confesses that he got cramp because he's into sports and over-trained during gym practice the day before. When Merlin asks him, “Which sports?” Arthur launches into a long-winded answer that seems to include any physical activity known to man. At which Merlin chuckles, and says, “Of course.”

“Why, 'of course'?” Arthur asks, making air quotes.

Cheeks heating, Merlin says, “Because you're fit.” 

That's ten seconds before Merlin parses what he's said. When realisation dawns he hurries to add, “Fit as in in good health and muscled and--”

Arthur's grinning now. Naturally, he'd think Merlin meant to say he was 'hot'. And it's not as if Merlin didn't entirely mean it, because Arthur is, but it's not as if that was what Merlin wanted to say. He's got a brain to mouth filter, which he often uses to good effect, barring odd circumstances in which posh he's confronted with blond gits who smirk knowingly at him as if daring him to fail miserably, so no, he didn't mean to say 'hot'. Unless it was deep down. A very subconcious connotation to his meaning. The kind of thing you wouldn't say on pain of torture. 

Since he can't bury his head in the sand emu style, Merlin fits his lips around his ice cream scoop and licks and sucks for all that he's worth, determined not to listen to whatever Arthur'll say next. It'd be the death of him most probably. If he listened, he'd be sure to emerge mortified from the event. It's a practical measure too because it's half past two o'clock, it's scorching hot, and his ice-cream is melting into a green puddle.

When Merlin finally looks up, mostly because he doesn't have a prehensile tongue and most of the pistachio is stuck at the base of the cone, it's to realise that Arthur's staring at him, eyes flaring blue like the sky while they search for his, Adam's apple plunging sea like a gull in search of prey.

“What?” says Merlin, smacking his sticky lips together.

Arthur doesn't answer. He seems frozen until he shakes himself, darts forward, and closes his lips around the tip of Merlin's nose. It's wet, as though Arthur's just licked him, which, duh, he has, and odd, and... not bad at all.

“What--”

He might have said that, or squirmed, or said something completely embarrassing because Arthur's pulled back, mouth shaped into a distinct 'o' of surprise. “You had,” he says, voice cracking. “You had...” His finger dances around his nose. “Ice cream on--”

“My nose?” Merlin supplies, because that's the least embarrassing thing he can think of right now.

“Yeah, and I...”

Merlin doesn't say, “You licked it clean,” even though that's exactly what happened. Instead he makes a noise like a screeching bat, clutches at the remnants of his cone like it's the hilt of a sword, and exclaims, “Why don't you show me around? I'm new here.”

Now that might have been high pitched. Bats. What bats?

Arthur's jaw slips open but he doesn't hold the pose for long. Instead he recovers quickly, and a lot more smoothly than Merlin ever could, stands up and marches off proclaiming that Merlin will now know the inns and out of the bay before Arthur's quite done.

Arthur is quite true to his word. He shows Merlin the rest of the beach, clambers over the shoals with him, and shows him the caves behind them, all the while providing a running commentary worthy of a tour guide. He leads him back to the sandy strip of coast, challenges him to a game of frisbee that Arthur wins, looking all exuberant and sun burnt and handsome, and shows him the local chippie and the stalls selling souvenirs to the passing tourists. The sun's not burning hot anymore when Arthur gives him a tour of the surfing shops, where everybody knows him because apparently Arthur is a surfer. Obviously, his hobbies are all the cool ones.

They pass the time this way until they plod back to Merlin's towel.

The sun's gone down and it's late enough in the afternoon that if Merlin doesn't get a move on and catch the coach back, he'll be home despicably late and his mum will skewer him – in the good natured way of mums the world over. He'll probably suffer house arrests too. For fifteen or twenty years. Sweet mums can also be decisive at times as Merlin has had the misfortune to learn.

Merlin says as much to explain why he's got to go. It doesn't make him happy and he'd definitely like to stay but he's completely forgotten to text his mum, his mobile's battery has died the miserable death cheap technology is prone to, and if he doesn't show up home he'll never hear the end of it.

Arthur's face closes off at the news. He stares out to sea, drives funnels in the sand with his toes, and pushes his hands in the pockets of his bright red trunks. “I see,” he says, looking pointedly at his toes.

“My mum's not super strict but she does worry.” (And then she gets strict.)

“No, of course, she does. I suppose mums do.”

Merlin is not listening to Arthur's half sentences, he's too busy deciding what to do now. He doesn't exactly want to dare because he's not one for first moves, but he likes Arthur with a belly fluttering certainty that's making him feel not a little bit sea sick, which he never is when actually at sea, so he just ploughs on, loud enough and fast enough that he can't hear himself say it. “We could do this again.”

Arthur's head snaps up, his lips curve upwards, but then his shoulders go down and he expels a big whoosh of air. “Leaving tomorrow for my holidays--”

“Aren't you on holiday alre--”

Arthur waves a hand to encompass the whole beach. “Somewhere else. Staying away for a month.”

“Um,” Merlin says. He guesses that this is it then. The thought fills him with a note of sadness, a pang that twists his insides in strange knots he wouldn't have thought possible this morning. Especially not when he considers how much he disliked Arthur at first sight. But lingering on that thought doesn't make him feel any the less forlorn now. “Well, then, I guess this is it, I--”

He's still blathering nonsense sounds, when Arthur steps forward, wraps a hand around Merlin's forearm, nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head to the side, going for Merlin's mouth.

It's a dash of a move, reckless and bold, and a bit brave, Merlin reckons, or would if he could think. All the same, however stunned his companion, Arthur takes Merlin's upper lip between his, then does the same for his lower one. He goes back to the former, pushing his tongue under it, slow and probing, until Merlin breathes in, so much air that it goes right to his head, and finds Arthur's tongue deep in his mouth, tangling and sliding wetly with his until they're both breathing fast. Too fast. 

Probably feeling as light headed as Merlin does, Arthur draws back, a shiver going through him, looks at him as though the world stops right here, right now, then dives in again, opening Merlin's lips wider. 

They're kissing again, deep and slow and messy. Heart threatening to burst just as messily into his chest, Merlin closes his eyes. As Arthur kisses him and he tastes back, stroking Arthur's tongue into his own mouth, Merlin sees swirls of colour as fantastic as a psychedelic rainbow spark to life behind his lids. He trembles; he shakes. 

One finger under his chin keeping Merlin's head in place, Arthur's palm a brand on his shoulder, they go at it, until they can't anymore. They need to come up for air and stop because, ouch, Merlin's lips feel worried raw. One more minute of Arthur's teeth nibbling on his lower lip and then they draw apart both winded, chests rising with it, eyes blown with surprise. Arthur's are and Merlin can't think he's any less a picture of addled lust.

“I--” Arthur says.

“It's all right,” Merlin offers, though that's something fairly idiotic to say. It's all right? It's all right! But then Merlin gives himself a pass because he has every right to sound like a moron. His brain cells have been scrambled with that kiss. That kiss which was Merlin's first. So, yeah, he's allowed a moment of utter world class stupidity, especially when Arthur, who was all smooth before, doesn't seem to be capable of speech either.

Left to his own devices, he'd probably say, 'That was interesting, wasn't it?' but he doesn't rattle that out. It's not the kind of thing you say to the person you've just snogged. Not unless you want to feel like a total failure or you want them to laugh at you or run away from you, blessing the fact that you've got to go.

“So, uh,” it's what comes out of Merlin's mouth instead. Somehow Merlin doesn't think that's an improvement but it's better than mind numbing silence.

Arthur ducks his head but fingers his lips as though they smart. “I guess that's it then.”

As he makes out the words, and it takes him shamefully long to make sense of them, Merlin's hopes plummet fast. “Yeah, I've got to... I mentioned my...”

“Of course,” Arthur says, taking a step back. “Your mum. That you have to--” 

Somehow, and all of a sudden, Arthur's stops floundering, both verbally and physically. He straightens, squares his shoulders, and corrects his tone to flawless elocution. “Then I suppose I should thank you again for saving my life and wish you the best of luck.”

Hopes still solidly low level, Merlin bobs his head 'yes', shakes his head 'no', and then chokes out, “Stop thanking me for that! What would you have had me do. Let you die?” Merlin isn't such a coward. 

Arthur says, “Of course not. I realise you would have done it anyway.”

Merlin hopes Arthur knows Merlin isn't someone who'd happily leave people in the lurch. He may not be super toned, or super trained, but he'll always try his best. With everything he's got. “But thanks for the general sentiment.”

Arthur darts him a look from under his fringe, eyes large, pupils going wider with something Merlin can't read. “You're a good guy, Merlin,” he says, stepping back.

It's the last Merlin sees of Arthur. Or almost the last. Arthur walks backwards to his towel and former position and Merlin watches him recede until he's a small speck with a blond head.

When he can no longer pick Arthur out, Merlin packs up and goes home, wishing somehow to both treasure today forever and rewrite it entirely so it goes differently. He doesn't know how he wants it to be different; he just knows that there was the potential for something quite spectacular that he didn't tap into.

If he could just put his finger on what, he'd be happier. But still he's made a memory that, however confusing and emotionally wrecking (a bit), he'll be glad to have had.

 

**** 

September.

The summer's gone by in a flash. Merlin's spent it mostly at home or at the park, or with Uncle Gaius helping him de-clutter his attic and his cellar and his lounge and the guest room and...

Elderly people can hoard, Merlin swears.

Anyway Merlin's not gone to the beach again. At first because he knew he wouldn't find Arthur there and later, as September approached and the days got chillier, because he thought he would. That perhaps Arthur had returned from his holiday wherever and had moved on to more familiar haunts.

Thinking that Arthur would be there and would fail to recognise him because Merlin was just a small incident in his summer is enough to dissuade him from trying.

After all Arthur hadn't given him his number or hinted at contacting him again. In short, some things are better left in the past.

Any way by the time the first of September rolls around, Merlin is entirely okay with the missed opportunity and by the third, his first day as a sixth former, he's entirely sure that he's safely put the Arthur thing behind him. 

He's got a lot to busy himself with, a future to start thinking about, so it's most assuredly no time to mope. 

A kiss, first proper snog or not, isn't anything much, is it? Not if you listen to Will and his supposedly infamous track record. (Not that Merlin believes it's as unsullied as Will makes it out to be.)

In short, Merlin confidently walks into his posh – he's only heard accents like those on those period dramas his mum loves so much – new school, convinced that he's turning a brand new page, embarking on a new adventure – one he doesn't star in as the loser of – only to hear a beautiful, confident, girl say, “Arthur Pendragon gave me his footie jersey to wear the other night. I'm sure I'll be his girlfriend before the end of term.”

Right then, Merlin thinks as his adjusts the shoulder strap of his rucksack, and marches into the unfamiliar always of Avalon Sixth Form College, this is is new beginning. Not as triumphant a one as he might have imagined but still it's his to make something of.

Independent of any Pendragons.

The ringing bell interrupts his musings and then Merlin can only rush down the corridor, to identify where class 12B is. 

And so a new school year begins.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously St Ives exists. But the beach mentioned here doesn't. I just needed Merlin to go somehwere that had a pier like the one I was imagining to dive off of.


End file.
